


And She Screamed

by fits_in_frames



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-04
Updated: 2006-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:12:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1568945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione has a candle kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And She Screamed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://empressaurelius.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://empressaurelius.livejournal.com/)**empressaurelius**.

In the Burrow that evening, everything seemed to be an accident. The walls didn't line up, none of the dishes matched, the windows were so irregular that the sunset showered the floor in rainbows, and somehow--somehow--they were alone. She didn't mean to cling to him on the sofa, to dig her nose into his neck, to let his hand drift to her thigh, to kiss for just a moment too long, and they certainly didn't plan on fumbling with skirts and zippers and elastic and denim and cotton. It was awkward and awful and his legs were too long and the sofa was too short, and before she realized it, orgasm and hot wax overtook her senses simultaneously, and she screamed--and she had to kick him with her other foot before he figured it out. She tried not to cry as he cast a short healing spell and and when he cleaned up the dried wax with his trousers around his knees, she laughed. "Your arse is skinny, Ronald," she teased, and he shot her a look and climbed back on top of her, this time making sure his feet were well on the sofa.

*

Her parents were right about Muggle motels--they used to pass them when she was small, and they would say, "Hermione, we never want you within 50 feet of that place, do you understand?" She remembered this somewhere in the back of her mind as she lay on the old, tattered bed with Ron curled up next to her, dozing, one hand on her stomach, the other in her hair. She idly petted Ron's hair, thick from genetics and greasy from a week's worth of non-stop travel, and glanced at Harry, who was balled up in the dusty corner, facing the wall, muttering in his sleep. She reached up and turned out the electric lamp, instead lighting the candle on her nightstand. When she turned back to Ron, he had woken up, supposedly from the change in lighting. He kissed her, and dipped one hand below her waistline, and soon they were rocking mindlessly in rhythm, as they did every night, as if only to remind themselves that they could still feel. He subconciously grabbed his wand from the bed and whispered _Wingardium Leviosa_ , and the candle lifted from the nightstand. She would have laughed if he'd never done it before, but she simply arched her back and waited for the pinpricks of heat to cover her skin, whimpering. Then, all at once, her hips hitched up to meet his and she screamed his name and he blew the candle out and lay on top of her, panting.

Harry didn't wake up until the morning, and never said a word.

*

She doesn't cry at his funeral. It's been too long and she feels too empty and worn out, so she holds hands with Ginny and Molly and stares at the ground during McGonagall's eulogy. Harry grips her shoulder tightly from behind, and she can hear him coughing and snuffling occasionally to cover up whatever emotions are coming out of him. His touch comforts her, until she looks up and sees the larger-than-life portrait of a boy of fifteen with flaming red hair and ears too big for his head. She doesn't like to remember him that way, innocent and carefree and slightly cocky. She closes her eyes and sees him, as he was three months ago: his hair stuck up in the back and his t-shirt was ripped across the front and his face was grimy (she couldn't help but rub the bit of dirt off his nose). And then there was a red flash and she doesn't remember what happened next, but when she woke up in St. Mungo's, she knew. She cried and cried and cried for days, and then they had to wait until the war was over, and now she knows she's too young to feel this old, so she breaks Ginny's grip to rub her nose through her veil and closes her eyes and leans her cheek on Harry's hand and doesn't listen anymore.

Harry lets her use the upstairs bath in 12 Grimmauld Place while he goes through an old box of letters they found in the depths of the Burrow--summer letters from Harry that Ron had saved. She is a mere shell of what she was the last time she took a bath here, but she turns on the water anyway. The sun goes down quickly, and she absently conjures tea candles and bubblebath like they would have in the Prefect's Bath, which is where she'd be right now if they were at Hogwarts, if she and Ron were still prefects. She undresses, closes the curtains above the tub, and sinks into the hot water. One hand grips her wand (it's instinct, now), and the other drifts over her thighs underwater, resting between them. She works herself to a sweat which she is quite certain is not the result of steam and her wand falls to the floor and her toe knocks one of the tea candles on to her exposed leg and she screams. And for a moment, as she hears Harry's footsteps bounding up the stairs, she feels alive again.


End file.
